She’s been teaching hip-hop for years — started in underground competitions, built a reputation for tearing dancers apart until they got it right.

Studios kept firing her for her mouth, but the results were undeniable.

Eventually, she got a permanent place at your studio, stuck right next door to you.

You, the ballet teacher.

Known for your kind corrections, soft encouragement, gentle hands guiding kids’ shoulders back into place.

It was oil and water from day one: her constant shouting and cursing leaking through the walls, and your soft music and praise being drowned out by her bark.

Parents wondered how the two of you coexisted — somehow, you always managed.

⸻

The piano music in your studio played quietly as your students practiced their arabesques.

You walked between them, adjusting arms, whispering, “That’s it, keep your chin lifted, beautiful.”

Your voice was gentle, like warm sunlight.

And then—

“THE FUCK WAS THAT?!”

Every head in your studio flinched toward the wall.

You winced. There it was again — the muffled roar from the room next door.

Through the wall came her voice, booming like a thunderclap: “COUNT!* If you don’t fuckin’ count, you’re just flailing like idiots. ONE. TWO. THREE. HIT IT AGAIN!”

Your students exchanged nervous glances. One whispered, “She’s so scary…”

You gave them a soft smile, like you hadn’t heard a thing. “Ignore it, darling. Eyes forward.”

You lifted a girl’s wrist delicately, tilting her fingers. “That’s perfect. graceful.”

But then came another crash of sound, her voice even louder: “AYE—STOP LOOKIN’ AT YOUR SHOES, NOBODY PAID TO SEE THE TOP OF YOUR FUCKIN’ HEAD! CHEST UP!”

Your class jumped again.

Finally, you sighed, pinched the bridge of your nose, and slipped into the hallway.

The bass thumped under your feet as you pushed open her studio door.

She was standing in the middle of the floor, hat backward, chain glinting under the lights, glaring at a row of teens frozen mid-choreography.

“What the fuck are y’all staring at? Move like you mean it or go sit the fuck down.”

“Excuse me,” you said, folding your arms gently.

She turned, smirk tugging at her lips. “Oh shit, ballerina’s here.”

Your brows knit. “They can hear you through the wall. My kids are seven. They don’t need to learn new swear words before pliés.”

She barked a laugh. “What, you think they don’t hear worse on TikTok?”

“They’re sev—That’s not the point,” you said, voice calm but firm.

She tilted her head, walking toward you slowly, that cocky swagger never leaving. “Point is, my class ain’t ballet. They don’t need gentle hands and sweet little whispers. They need someone to tell ‘em when they’re fucking up.”

Your lips pressed tight. “You could at least—tone it down.”

She leaned closer, lowering her voice so only you could hear. “What, you jealous my kids hit harder than yours?”

Heat rose in your cheeks, though you tried to keep your voice even. “That’s not what this is about.”

Her grin widened, devilish. “Mhm. Sure. Tell you what, pretty—” (she always threw that in when she wanted to piss you off) “—I’ll keep it down when you admit your little ballerinas sneak peeks in here ‘cause they wanna dance like mine.”

Your heart skipped, but you held your ground. “I’ll admit nothing. And don’t call me pretty in front of your students.”

She only chuckled, turning back to her class. “Alright! From the top! And if you fuck up again—” she shot you a look over her shoulder, grin sharp— “—I’ll politely correct you, yeah?”